How does one start the story of one's life? Do I start with "Once upon a time" like in a fairytale or do I go with something a little more biblical like "In the beginning"? I think I will start the the obvious, I was born February 5, 1954 to Janet and George Fournier although they gave me life they were not fated to be my parents. Those people were Helena and Edward Rudski who at the moment of my birth were living a few towns away blissfully unaware that their daughter had just entered the world.
My biological parents were not a match made in heaven, I suspect it might have been a match made in a bar. My mother, a young widow with a son, met up with a good looking younger man. I never met either of my biological parents but I suspect my mother was strong willed and very much the survivor from the little I know of her (her first husband died in a car accident. She was pregnant with my oldest brother and also in the accident). My father I know less of. What I do know was garnered from a couple of afternoon encounters with his sister and his brother at different times and they both saw their brother George with different eyes. The one thing I do know about my father is he died from drink as they say. Too young and several states away from his family. I don't know when, I don't even know where he is buried.
My biological mother is a bit of a different story. I found her but as far as she was concerned we were way past knowing each other on any level never mind mother and daughter. She died within a couple of years of writing me my rejection letter (so apropos as she earned her living as a writer but never made the transition to a novelist). She died of breast cancer, something we both had in common. She was cremated and I attended her internment with my reunited siblings on a sunny day in June at a cemetery in Northampton, MA. It was funny in an odd way that her obituary (which ran in some local papers up around So. Royalton, VT where she had lived for years and yes I live in VT only about an hour and 15 mins. away from her home) listed her five children and their respective spouses and/or significant others. To those that had known her, she had 2 sons not 3 sons and 2 daughters. What a shock to some that this seemingly forthright, outgoing woman hid such a sorrowful past. Even at the cemetery when we were introduce to various family members there was no shock or whisperings in the corner at the reception held afterwards about these interlopers that had recently joined the family. Perhaps some knew, maybe some had an inkling but no one seemed totally blindsided by the fact that we existed and were there.
At the internment it was only her side of the family and that of her first husband's that attended. My brother and I were the children of her second husband (George) and even so many years after the fact of his abandonment of the family they held a grudge against her for the loss of their brother and of his children. So they chose not to attend the funeral.
Yes, there are gaps and holes in this story. It doesn't cover my sister's determination to find her biological family or the story of us individual siblings being brought up very differently by adoptive parents or of our biological mother who brought up 2 of her sons.
I think I started down this road before on my blog but found it a difficult road to travel. I never met my biological parents, their associates, friends, or co-workers, so I only know snippets of their lives as seen through those who loved them which colors how good or bad these people might have been. When I was in my teens I was curious about these 'parents'. When I was in my early 20's I was ambivalent. My late 20's with the birth of our first son Eli, made me search out the woman who arranged my adoption and from her find out the name of my biological aunt on my father's side, whom I contacted and spent a day with driving around Easthampton, MA. Seeing her home, meeting part of her family and learning that she and her husband had unsuccessfully tried to adopt my brother Bill and myself. But at the same time I felt no connection. She may have been my aunt but she wasn't the aunt I loved, who had a drawer full of cheesecake recipes, who could crochet or knit anything, whose name was Irene and she was married to Charlie who smoked really smelly cigars. I had a history, a family, I just couldn't connect to all the new information given to me. So I disconnected. That has been part of a problem in my life, the disconnect. So that was the end of it, I knew a little more than I had when I started out but it was the life of someone else. So I tucked the information away and continued on for almost another 20 years with nary a thought about those whom I was connected with by blood.
Then somewhere before my 44th birthday a letter came. A woman called Nonnie (Marion) was looking for her sister. She had hired a detective and he had pointed her in my direction. From there the ball started to roll and we began to meet the other siblings, Tim, Bill and Bobby. Some of the stories are good, some are sad. Three new families came out of the disaster of our mother's life and I do believe it was a disaster. It hardened her so she couldn't accept us when all we wanted was to get to know the woman that gave birth to us. I never wanted to pry into her private life, I just wanted a conversation with her. I didn't need to know the whys, I needed to know her but that was to be denied because of her own pain.
That I suppose is part of motherhood. I don't know how she lived with herself after she gave 3 of her children up. Did she disconnect? I can't imagine giving my boys up, that is the one disconnect I could never make. I wasn't always the best mom and I didn't always like my boys but I always loved them. There was never any way then or now that I could step away from that. They were the first humans I felt a true bond with because we shared DNA, my DNA and their Dad's. I never felt that before, a blood bond, a direct link to my past and to their future. Nothing else mattered except that connection and it is still one of the most important part of my life.
Well that's it for this evenings ramble. I apologize to those who know more about the structuring and punctuation of sentences than I. I am just writing this off the cuff in hopes that maybe both my sons will read it and understand a little where some of their mom's insecurities and issues come from. Like I said, I wasn't (am not) perfect and I feel that maybe there might be some resentment out there due to my lack of parenting skills. But I think despite how I may have cause issues in either of your lives, you have both turned out to be exactly who you needed to be. I am proud of you both. I love Eli as my first and Eric as my last. It is equal and unwavering.
My biological parents were not a match made in heaven, I suspect it might have been a match made in a bar. My mother, a young widow with a son, met up with a good looking younger man. I never met either of my biological parents but I suspect my mother was strong willed and very much the survivor from the little I know of her (her first husband died in a car accident. She was pregnant with my oldest brother and also in the accident). My father I know less of. What I do know was garnered from a couple of afternoon encounters with his sister and his brother at different times and they both saw their brother George with different eyes. The one thing I do know about my father is he died from drink as they say. Too young and several states away from his family. I don't know when, I don't even know where he is buried.
My biological mother is a bit of a different story. I found her but as far as she was concerned we were way past knowing each other on any level never mind mother and daughter. She died within a couple of years of writing me my rejection letter (so apropos as she earned her living as a writer but never made the transition to a novelist). She died of breast cancer, something we both had in common. She was cremated and I attended her internment with my reunited siblings on a sunny day in June at a cemetery in Northampton, MA. It was funny in an odd way that her obituary (which ran in some local papers up around So. Royalton, VT where she had lived for years and yes I live in VT only about an hour and 15 mins. away from her home) listed her five children and their respective spouses and/or significant others. To those that had known her, she had 2 sons not 3 sons and 2 daughters. What a shock to some that this seemingly forthright, outgoing woman hid such a sorrowful past. Even at the cemetery when we were introduce to various family members there was no shock or whisperings in the corner at the reception held afterwards about these interlopers that had recently joined the family. Perhaps some knew, maybe some had an inkling but no one seemed totally blindsided by the fact that we existed and were there.
At the internment it was only her side of the family and that of her first husband's that attended. My brother and I were the children of her second husband (George) and even so many years after the fact of his abandonment of the family they held a grudge against her for the loss of their brother and of his children. So they chose not to attend the funeral.
Yes, there are gaps and holes in this story. It doesn't cover my sister's determination to find her biological family or the story of us individual siblings being brought up very differently by adoptive parents or of our biological mother who brought up 2 of her sons.
I think I started down this road before on my blog but found it a difficult road to travel. I never met my biological parents, their associates, friends, or co-workers, so I only know snippets of their lives as seen through those who loved them which colors how good or bad these people might have been. When I was in my teens I was curious about these 'parents'. When I was in my early 20's I was ambivalent. My late 20's with the birth of our first son Eli, made me search out the woman who arranged my adoption and from her find out the name of my biological aunt on my father's side, whom I contacted and spent a day with driving around Easthampton, MA. Seeing her home, meeting part of her family and learning that she and her husband had unsuccessfully tried to adopt my brother Bill and myself. But at the same time I felt no connection. She may have been my aunt but she wasn't the aunt I loved, who had a drawer full of cheesecake recipes, who could crochet or knit anything, whose name was Irene and she was married to Charlie who smoked really smelly cigars. I had a history, a family, I just couldn't connect to all the new information given to me. So I disconnected. That has been part of a problem in my life, the disconnect. So that was the end of it, I knew a little more than I had when I started out but it was the life of someone else. So I tucked the information away and continued on for almost another 20 years with nary a thought about those whom I was connected with by blood.
Then somewhere before my 44th birthday a letter came. A woman called Nonnie (Marion) was looking for her sister. She had hired a detective and he had pointed her in my direction. From there the ball started to roll and we began to meet the other siblings, Tim, Bill and Bobby. Some of the stories are good, some are sad. Three new families came out of the disaster of our mother's life and I do believe it was a disaster. It hardened her so she couldn't accept us when all we wanted was to get to know the woman that gave birth to us. I never wanted to pry into her private life, I just wanted a conversation with her. I didn't need to know the whys, I needed to know her but that was to be denied because of her own pain.
That I suppose is part of motherhood. I don't know how she lived with herself after she gave 3 of her children up. Did she disconnect? I can't imagine giving my boys up, that is the one disconnect I could never make. I wasn't always the best mom and I didn't always like my boys but I always loved them. There was never any way then or now that I could step away from that. They were the first humans I felt a true bond with because we shared DNA, my DNA and their Dad's. I never felt that before, a blood bond, a direct link to my past and to their future. Nothing else mattered except that connection and it is still one of the most important part of my life.
Well that's it for this evenings ramble. I apologize to those who know more about the structuring and punctuation of sentences than I. I am just writing this off the cuff in hopes that maybe both my sons will read it and understand a little where some of their mom's insecurities and issues come from. Like I said, I wasn't (am not) perfect and I feel that maybe there might be some resentment out there due to my lack of parenting skills. But I think despite how I may have cause issues in either of your lives, you have both turned out to be exactly who you needed to be. I am proud of you both. I love Eli as my first and Eric as my last. It is equal and unwavering.
